


The missing piece

by alinewrites



Category: Sherlock Holmes (TV) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-11
Updated: 2010-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinewrites/pseuds/alinewrites





	The missing piece

It had not even been a conscious thought. Such a menial certainty could remain buried in the reptilian part of his brain – a very limited part as far as he was concerned. Anyway the knowledge had been there, always, that if he ever was to form a bond (which was something he had never wished per se, except for a brief and rather disgusting period around twelve years old) it would be with someone who could measure up intellectually. The sex did not matter – man, woman… in the end the satisfaction was the same.

Which did not mean that anyone who was as intellectually gifted could become a potential mate. Moriarty's brainpower matched his – he could not envision a bond of any kind with such a man. He could bow to his intelligence, respect it but the man was awful.

Certainly though, he thought glancing at a corner in the room, and feeling strangely comforted to find there exactly whom he was looking for, certainly he had never imagined that one day he would want to share his life with someone as dumb as John Watson.

Dumb was insulting of course. John did have a brain and used it, more than other humans generally did –not that it meant much. But John's cluelessness sometimes left him both annoyed and surprised. That John, who was a perceptive and awfully sensitive man, could remain clueless in front of a situation where so many – SO MANY – clues were left around for anyone to pick them up, stunned him. Probably John's beliefs in emotions, kindness and ethics obscured the rational part of his brain.

He turned away from the window to look at him. John was sitting quietly, reading some medical magazine. He could not deny that he was… there was no appropriate word … Certainly not in love – he hated the word and the concept it included. The most fitting way to put it, Sherlock thought, was that there had been something – someone – missing, like the piece of a puzzle. It had been disturbing and, indeed, puzzling but he had not known what it was. Who it was. Now John was sitting here and the puzzle was complete, which gave Sherlock a sensation of achievement.

Looking away he gazed out of the window. It was almost midnight. The street had emptied. Only a group of boys – homeless, with dangerous looking dogs – had gathered at the corner of the street, drinking cheap strong drinks and laughing very loud. Sherlock knew them, sometimes used their skills. Not now. He did not even want to think about work. What he wanted… He let the curtain fall back and walked up to John's chair, resting his hands on the armrests, trapping John. "Are you going to bed any time soon?" he asked. Something was burning along his nerves, up and down his spine. He went as far as running his fingers against John's hand, looking him deep into his eyes, letting his expression convey his desire.

John looked at his hand and Sherlock's fingers. "I thought you were married to your job?" he asked in a business-like voice.

Sherlock sighed. He did not like it when there was some seducing, convincing to do. He wanted people compliant and ready when and where he needed them; he hated wasting valuable time chatting them up. Of course, that was John so he would make the effort. "What would be a marriage without the mandatory extra-conjugal aberrations?"

John's expression and raised eyebrow made him realize that was not the right way to go. "Aberrations?" he said coolly.

"Delicious, enjoyable, priceless aberrations. I want you," Sherlock said, and running his fingers up John's wrists under the cuffs of his shirt, he added. "Of course, if you do not share such feelings…"

John rose from the armchair into Sherlock's embrace. "I do," he said. "Share them, I mean."

Sherlock smiled. For the few seconds he looked away from John, he saw in the mirror on the opposite wall how feral and narrow his smile looked, matching the expression in his eyes. How could people want him seeing this? He remembered some being freaked out. John was not freaked out. John was looking up at him with his usual thoughtful expression, as if he was thinking the situation over, looking for clues.

Sherlock pressed against him to give him an easy one and John's eyes clouded. "What are we waiting for?" Sherlock asked, impatient, gritting his teeth, fighting the desire to take John here and now, roughly, maybe without even taking off their clothes…

"I wonder," John said, walking out of his embrace and stepping to the door.

Sherlock reached it first, two long strides to grab John, shove him against the wooden panel – take the risk of waking Mrs Hudson up – and pinning him there. He kissed him hard, his fingers locked around John's wrists, feeling John's body stiffen, react, fight back. He smiled against John's lips. "You like this," he said.

Danger and war – John missed them. John hid his own hunger behind the cool respectable looks. Only Sherlock knew.

"Let's do it here," he said, and John agreed.

There was the unavoidable fumbling, swearing, cursing at too many clothes but at last John was out of his trousers and Sherlock had freed his desire-swollen cock. Lube in the small table – Sherlock knocked the resisting drawer down, swore between his teeth, heard John's chuckle. At least the condom thing could be left aside – their once scarce sex life was now focused on each other.

They kissed again, feverish and annoyed at themselves. "Turn around," Sherlock said, and pressed against John's back, pulling the shirt out the way until he was naked and warm against him. He grinded his cock against John's ass. Sherlock did not like this part. What he wanted was to be buried inside John's body and feel the smooth heat surrounding him. He took John fast and hard, letting lust guide, smiling at John's growl. It was satisfyingly rough, John's hands clawing at the wood, his body trembling with lust, his head thrown back as he smothered a cry when he came, Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his cock. It took only a few more thrusts for him to achieve his own pleasure… satiation left them panting and boneless, the wall holding them up until it became uncomfortable and slightly embarrassing.

"Bed," John said, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock stepped back, pulled up his pants and wiped his hands clean with a tissue. An idea occurred to him. He chuckled.

"What?" John asked from the wall he was leaning against, getting decent again, which was difficult considering his swollen lips, heavy eyelids, messy hair and generally sated expression. "What's so funny now?"

Sherlock concentrated on every finger. "I was thinking," he said slowly, "how lucky I was, considering that I am not even your date."

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock laughed.

"Bed," Sherlock said. "We might have a few things to sort out still."


End file.
